


All The Right Moves

by Meg13



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannon Violence, F/M, Pining, Politics, Revenge, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, background cannon relationships, cato and clove won previous games, mature themes, originally posted on ff.net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13/pseuds/Meg13
Summary: The life of a Victor isn't all it's cracked up to be. Assassinations, love affairs, and betrayal... Just another day in the life of a double agent.
Relationships: Cato/Clove (Hunger Games), Clove (Hunger Games)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Part One, A

**Author's Note:**

> the first four chapters were previously posted on ff.net, but are slowly migrating over here now that I've finally dusted off the cobwebs and am actively working on it again.

The sun is just beginning to peak over tip-tops of the mountains when Cato finally finds himself hobbling through his back gate. He’s been on the road for the past three days and, though he typically doesn’t think of his too-big house in the Victor’s Village as _home_ , just the sight of the place is enough to ease his anxiety. In fact, all he can think of as he steps up to his back door is how good it’s going to feel to curl up under the fresh, clean sheets he put on his bed the morning before he left.

Of course, he’ll have to wash off all the blood first. And after three days without bathing or even a change of clothes, a hot shower is definitely his top priority.

He begins fumbling through his vest pocket for his keys, the promise of a shower and sleep hastening his movements despite two broken fingers and swollen knuckles, when he suddenly realizes the door is already unlocked. He’s positive he locked it before setting out on Wednesday afternoon and so, with an annoyed “fuck”, Cato readies himself for yet another fight and pushes into the house – only to find Clove sitting on his counter, munching on a bowl of cereal.

Cato sighs irritably. It’s been six weeks since he’s seen his best friend and her sudden appearance in his kitchen undoubtedly means emotional or physical turmoil is on the horizon. He’ll be more prepared for all of… _that_ tomorrow, but not tonight. No, tonight he needs a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles and a good eight hours of solid sleep in order to function properly.

He knows there are no video cameras in the house, but the possibility of listening devices is too great to ignore so he keeps his mouth shut as he drops his gear onto the floor and then limps across the kitchen to pluck the bowl out of her hands. Cato may be exhausted and in pain, but that doesn’t mean he’s not amused by the way Clove glares at him while he eats the remainder of the cereal right in front of her.

Once he’s drained the milk and dumped the bowl in the sink, he hobbles off to his bedroom. The stairs are a bit tricky to traverse, what with the knife wound on his thigh refusing to keep closed, but he somehow makes it to his bedroom in one relatively intact piece and, while Clove disappears into the adjoining bathroom to turn on the shower, he manages to peel off his filthy, battered clothes. He throws the soiled clothing into the corner, fully intending to trash the whole getup when he wakes up, and slips into the bathroom.

Clove, who has stripped to her undies, is already under the spray and, having left the door open for him, reaches out her arm to help Cato over the lip of the shower. She quickly moves out of the way so he can stand under the water and begins lathering up a washcloth with soap. He doesn’t say anything as she washes him, opting instead to watch as the blood and grime and soap circle the drain.

When he’s clean and dry, Clove helps him to his bed and flashes him a look that clearly says ‘move a muscle and I’ll hurt you’ before heading back into the bathroom in search of medical supplies. They’ve both had their fair share of contusions and broken bones over the years so it doesn’t take long for her to splint his fingers, patch up his knuckles, and treat his thigh wound. He’ll deal with the minor cuts and bruises tomorrow.

It’s a little after 7 o’clock by the time they finally settle into bed – Cato on his back with Clove pressing against his side, her cheek resting on his chest – and, though her initial appearance in his house grated on his nerves and he’s so tired he’s not really capable of thinking rationally, Cato’s so happy to have Clove back in his arms that he almost doesn’t even want to fall asleep. But despite his attempts at savoring the moment, he’s dead to the world within seconds of closing his eyes.

\-----

Cato sleeps soundly for a solid twelve hours. Once upon a time a good night’s sleep simply wasn’t in the cards for him. He had night terrors - the gruesome, horrifying kind he tried to shut out by avoiding sleep completely. For days at a time Cato would stumble around his freshly painted house in the Victor’s Village trying desperately to keep the nightmares at bay and then, when his body just couldn’t handle it anymore, he’d collapse only to awake hours later to the sounds of his own screams echoing in his ears. The night he dreamed of Fabian, his best friend and dead Tribute, being ripped to shreds over and over again was the night he decided to put an end to the debilitating dreams once and for all and, with one quick trip to his Capitol physician, he managed to do just that.

He didn’t take his sleeping pills last night though, and so it must have been Clove wrapped around him (and possibly complete and utter exhaustion) that kept him comfortably asleep so long this time. When his eyes finally do flutter open his room is already shrouded in darkness and, if the mouth-watering aroma coming from downstairs is any indication, it’s also dinner time. He hasn’t eaten much more than a handful of protein bars and half of a bowl of cereal over the past few days so it’s no wonder his stomach begins rumbling almost instantly.

Wincing, Cato gingerly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and climbs to his feet. He rushes through his usual morning activities – well, as much as his injured thigh will allow him – and hobbles down the stairs to find his father, Magnus, sitting at the head of his kitchen table watching contentedly as Clove places a steaming bowl in front of him.

“Smells good,” Cato says with a grin, successfully stealing their attention from the food on the table. He cranes his neck to get a good look at the table and his grin widens. “Elk stew?”

“Your favorite,” Clove murmurs under her breath as she takes a seat to the right of his dad.

“My favorite,” Cato reiterates and pushes off the wall to limp towards his dinner. His father frowns at the way his left leg drags but swallows his concern when Cato shakes his head and drops into his seat without too much difficulty. “Where’d you get the elk?”

“I bought it,” Magnus tells him and shoots the younger people a knowing look. There are only a few hunters in D-2 permitted to hunt large game, but the Mayor _never_ buys what they bring to market. He prefers to have the Hudson boy, a rather skilled poacher for only fifteen, drop his fresh kills in the tool shed behind his home, the Mayor’s Mansion. He pays the boy twice as much as the meat in the market and subsequently keeps the whole Hudson family properly fed and clothed for a good four to six months. “Found myself a big ‘ol bull and bought the whole damn thing. I didn’t think you’d mind if I stashed half of it in that freezer out back.”

“Don’t mind at all,” Cato chuckles, reaching for the plate of bread next to Clove. His fingertips just barely grasp the edge of the plate and when he tries to lift it a sudden jolt of pain surges through his fingers and into his wrist, causing him to jerk back. The plate falls to the table with a clatter and Cato growls in frustration.

“What happened?” Magnus asks, glancing at a concerned Clove and then back at his son.

“I fell while I was camping,” Cato says smoothly. It’s not a complete lie, he _did_ sleep in a tent for three nights and he _did_ fall, but it’s not really the truth either. Not that he really needs to lie for their benefit. Clove and Magnus both know what he does. In fact, his father was the one who sent him on his latest assignment. “There was a mountain lion. It didn’t go down without a fight.”

He can tell they want more details, but it isn’t safe in the house.

“But you got him in the end, right?” Magnus raises an eyebrow.

“Yes sir.” Cato nods. “Took longer than usual, and he got in a few good scratches,” he gestures to his injured leg, “but I managed to break his neck.”

Magnus smiles, though it doesn’t really reach his eyes. “I always liked mountain lions.”

“Me too,” Cato says, his gaze flickering to Clove. She’s staring at him curiously, trying to figure out exactly what conversation he and his father _aren’t_ having, and he knows she won’t be happy when she finds out which _mountain lion_ he deposed.

“I’m sure you took care of the carcass like I taught you? Didn’t just leave it out for the rest of the animals to pick at?”

“Of course,” Cato nods again. “I did was I was trained to do.”

“Good.” Magnus lets the subject drop and turns his attention to the bowl of stew on the table in front of him. He takes a bite before looking up at Clove, then Cato, and mutters meaningfully, “Better tuck in while it’s still hot.”

\-----

They finish dinner in silence. Magnus helps Clove clear the table and then bids them a good night with a kiss on top of their heads. After he’s gone, Clove returns to the kitchen to clean up and Cato watches her, smiling softly at the domesticity of it all, while lounging on the couch in the living room. When the last plate is in its place Clove wipes her wet hands off on her jeans and joins Cato in the living room. They sit in silence for a few moments, simply enjoying each other’s presence, before Clove’s curiosity finally gets the best of her. She nods at the back door and then helps Cato to his feet.

“Thank you,” Cato mutters once they’re a safe distance from the house, “for taking care of me last night.”

“This morning,” Clove corrects with a smile as they amble slowly down the winding path through the forest. It’s dark out and the trail is difficult to follow, but they’ve navigated it enough times to know where every dip and turn is. “You were out of salve,” she gestures at his leg, “or else I’d have been able to do a much better job. But Onyx and Astoria will be here in the morning anyway.”

Cato grins at the mention on their Stylists. As the most recent District Two Victors, Cato and Clove are still under the jurisdiction of D-2’s Head Stylists. As such, Astoria has been with Cato for the past five years and has become a sort-of-mother to him. Honestly, he’s not sure he would be alive if not for her constant support and guidance. Without her help navigating the Capitol’s social scene he would have been utterly lost and definitely wouldn’t have been able to accomplish the goals and objectives he’s set for himself and for the Rebellion. She helps him shine, but she also patches him up when he’s at his worst - which is exactly what she’ll be doing in the morning. Cringing, Cato thinks about the plethora of battle scars he’s earned in the last six weeks alone. He’s in for a full Body Buff, unfortunately, and he knows it.

“Are the rest of the circus monkeys coming with them?” Cato asks. Astoria and Onyx are great, but their teams can be a bit grating when they want to be.

“Mmhmm,” Clove murmurs as she helps Cato over a jutting tree root. “Coriolanus wants us to look our best.”

Cato flinches. He hates it when she calls Snow by his first name - hates that she’s familiar enough with him to be _allowed_ to call him by his first name – and the way she says it, so nonchalantly, makes it all the worse and always, _always_ , put him on edge.

 _It’s not real_ , he has to tell himself. _It’s all an act, nothing more._

Cato takes a deep breath and silently repeats that mantra a few times in an attempt to keep his fear and frustration away. It doesn’t work. “And how is Vaughn these days?” He sneers at Clove. “I’m surprised he allowed you to come home early. Keeps you on a pretty short leash usually, doesn’t he?”

Clove glares up at him but doesn’t take the bait. Vaughn Snow is a point of contention they’ve argued over time and again and she’s tired of the unnecessary jealousy. It’s not like she _wants_ to be the girlfriend of the president’s grandson (at least, not most of the time), but it’s the assignment she was tasked with and she’ll be damned if she fails the Rebellion just because Cato has a hard time separating fact from fiction.

“Vaughn is fine,” she finally grinds out and kicks a rock out of her path in irritation. “Same as always; smart, handsome, and _evil_.”

Cato winces at the harshness of her tone and instantly regrets trying to pick a fight with her. It’s not an argument he wants to have, _again_ , and wasting what little time they have together is the last thing he wants to do. It’s just that she doesn’t say Vaughn’s name with as much venom as she used to and she seems to genuinely enjoy the man’s presence now and, well, _Cato has eyes_ – he can see the way they gaze at each other when she thinks no one is looking.

“Clove, I’m sor-“

“Don’t,” Clove interrupts firmly and picks up her pace until Cato is no longer able to keep up with her.

He stops and watches her as she disappears into the darkness. Sighing, Cato clicks his tongue in frustration before limping the rest of the way along the path. When he finally rounds the bend leading to their destination he finds Clove sitting on a fallen tree, her knees pulled to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. She looks up when he steps in front of her and smiles sadly as he squeezes her shoulder, trying his best to be a comfort.

“He’s been in a lot of meetings lately,” Clove says after a moment of silence. “He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t come home some nights until well after midnight. I don’t know exactly what they’re plotting, but I know it’s all riding on this Victory Tour and how well the Everdeen girl can keep the districts from revolting.”

“She’s done a pretty shit job of that,” Cato snorts mirthlessly and takes a seat next to Clove. “Eleven’s all but rioting in the streets at this point.”

Clove nods solemnly. “That night, Vaughn came home really upset. He told me he wouldn’t let anything happen to me, that he would take care of me and not to worry. He was _distraught_ , Cato.” She licks her lips nervously. “I think Coriolanus wants to punish Everdeen for fanning the flames, for becoming a symbol of hope to the people. And I think we’re going to be punished right alongside her.”

Cato frowns, contemplating her words. He’s not sure what she thinks their punishment may be (he refuses to consider the words _Quarter_ and _Quell_ ) but at least he can say he’s confident in one thing - if Vaughn says he’ll keep Clove safe, then he’ll keep Clove safe and that’s good enough for him.

On the other hand, Vaughn would gladly throw Cato to a pack of rabid Mutts. Whatever it is they’re planning, Cato knows he’ll somehow wind up right in the thick of it. _I always do_ , he thinks with a huff.

“Hey,” Cato says after a few moments of tense silence. He reaches out to wrap his arm around Clove’s shoulders and smiles when she leans into his embrace. “There’s no use worrying about it now. Whatever happens, we can handle it. Okay?”

After a beat, he can feel Clove nod into his shoulder. “So,” she asks, “who was it this time?”

“Whitt,” Cato tells her after a slight hesitation.

“Whitt Frost?” Clove looks up at him sharply, confused. “But he’s a Rebel.”

“He was playing both sides-“

“No shit,” Clove interrupts sarcastically and pulls away from Cato. “He’s a double agent!”

“ _Was_ a double agent,” Cato corrects before he can stop himself.

“Wow,” Clove deadpans. “And they call me an insensitive bitch.”

Cato narrows his eyebrows dramatically. “Are you saying I’m a bitch?”

Clove only rolls her eyes.

“Okay, _yes_ , he was a double agent,” Cato finally concedes. Whitt Frost may have been an arrogant little prick when he wanted to be, but he grew up across the street from Clove and had been _involved_ with her brother Mace since The Academy, so he feels he owes her some sort of explanation (however vague it is) as to why the man wasn’t simply relocated. “He did a lot of good work for us, but he was also extremely careless and made a lot of mistakes; mistakes that wound up getting people killed.”

“I still don’t understand why he had to be terminated,” Clove sighs.

“He was greedy – had his hands in too many pockets. Look, you know I’m not the judge or the jury. I’m just the executioner.” Cato shrugs. “I got the page from Coors and was preparing for relocation when my father’s note came in twenty minutes later. I don’t know exactly what he did but it had to have been _bad_ if both sides wanted him dead.”

Clove is silent for a moment or two as she tries to process the information she’s just been given. War changes people, she knows that, and this won’t be the first time she has to separate her personal feelings about someone from her professional ones. Whitt did change when he was promoted to Peacekeeper: First Lieutenant and she’s not as surprised as she thinks she should be at his demise. Although, Mace will be utterly heartbroken.

“Looks like he didn’t go down without a fight,” Clove says, nodding at his leg.

“That stupid shithead was tipped,” Cato answers, holding up his hand to remind her of his broken fingers. “He knew I was coming so he rigged his house. Asshole stabbed me and slammed my fingers in a door and he _bit_ me. What kind of fucker bites someone?”

“Mace never seemed to mind.”

Clove’s joke falls flat. She groans and falls forward to bury her face in her hands, “What am I going to tell him?”

“You don't have to tell him anything,” Cato suggests, rubbing her back. “People go missing every day, Clove.”

“Whitt would never just disappear without telling Mace. And you forget, Mace has been the lead on more than one of your cases,” Clove reminds him. “Besides, I would want to know if it were me.”

“I think all of Panem would know if Vaughn went missing.”

Clove, still hunched over, turns her face upwards to glare at him. “If it were _you_ , stupid.”

Cato grins, despite the rather morbid topic of conversation. “Do you want me to tell him?”

Clove contemplates his offer for a moment, but ultimately sits up and shakes her head. “No. No, I’ll do it.”

“Are you going to tell him it was me?”

“I think he’ll know it was you,” Clove says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll try to soften the blow. But don't be surprised if he shows up on your doorstep.”

“Mace knows the drill.” Cato shrugs. “I doubt he’ll confront me.”

“Wouldn't you?” Clove snorts in response. “If it were me, wouldn't you go after the person who did it whether it was their call or not?”

Cato frowns because, yes, even if she were a tactical nightmare like Whitt had been for both sides, he would move Heaven and Hell to avenge Clove if anything happened to her.

“Thought so.” Clove sighs and pushes off the log, onto her feet. “I think it's about time we head back. Big day tomorrow.”

Cato nods, but their conversation has him distracted. He silently follows her back down the winding path to his house and only opens his mouth to thank her when she helps him over a couple of gnarly roots.

“You’ll be ok tonight?” Clove asks once they arrive back at Cato’s house. She ducks down to pull at his pant leg. “I should look at-“

“It’s fine,” Cato says, swatting at her hand. “Astoria will fix me in the morning.”

“You don't need fixing.” Clove grins and has to tip-toe in order to wrap her arms around Cato’s broad shoulders. “Just a little spit-shine here and there.”


	2. Part One, B

“Buddy, you _better_ get out of bed!”

Cato groans and rolls over on the bed, trying to escape the persistent attempts at waking him. He’s just about to pull the comforter over his head when it’s ripped out of his grasp and wrenched away. “No,” he mumbles and slowly opens one eye to find Astoria, her rose-gold skin glimmering in the sunlight, standing at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips, still clutching the comforter. He closes his eye again, nuzzles into the soft pillow, and mutters, “Five more minutes, Stori.”

“Oh no,” Astoria shakes her head threateningly. “I don’t think so. You get out of that bed right _now_!”

And then the pillow is yanked away too.

“Astoria,” Cato pouts and rolls onto his back. “I’m tired.”

“Do I _look_ like I care?” Astoria snaps. “You,” she points at him and her upper lip curls when she catches sight of the scrapes and scars riddling his naked torso, “are in need of a _full_ Body Buff and it’s after _ten_ and Body Buffs take _time,_ Cato!”

Cato winces at her tone and, because he knows she means business, slowly rolls out of bed. Astoria allows him just a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, to collect himself before she begins tapping her foot impatiently. Cato groans again and slowly stands.

“ _What_ did you do to yourself this time?” Astoria demands in horror after she sees the way he stumbles when he first puts pressure on his injured leg.

“Didn’t do anything,” Cato yawns and tries to bat her hands away when she suddenly swoops down and pushes the edge of briefs up. “It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” Astoria hisses and pokes his tender flesh. She clucks her tongue in disapproval then straightens up and jabs her index finger in the direction of his bathroom. “You get in that shower right _now_ young man.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Cato yawns, waving her off as he limps away to follow her directions.

“And you _better_ not be in there all damn day,” Astoria huffs. “Or it’ll be your _ass_ boy!”

He takes a quick shower, deciding it’s best not to linger longer than necessary since Astoria’s threats are never idle (and he fears she could actually remove his ass from his body), and staggers downstairs to find the rest of his prep team waiting for him. Once the usual feigning and fawning is done they usher him to the hovercraft waiting outside to work their magic.

The Body Buff takes a bit longer than usual because of the seriousness of his recent injuries, but he’s bright and shiny and looks brand new when he steps out of the portable remake center just before six o’clock that evening. The way his prep team is able to completely transform him from a battle-weary personal soldier into a respectable-looking Capitolite always amazes him and he spends a full five minutes in front of his mirror marveling at their work. The gory knife-wound on his thigh has been reduced to a minuscule white line, his broken fingers have been set and refused, and the bruises and cuts and scrapes covering the rest of his body are now nonexistent – it’s like the brutal fight with Whitt never even happened.

And like always, Cato’s not quite sure how he feels about that.

Sighing, he turns away from the mirror and quickly pulls on the navy colored tux Astoria has left for him. He gives himself a quick once-over in the mirror to make sure he’s not missing anything and then hurries down the stairs, thankful that his leg is no longer a hindrance, where Astoria is waiting for him.

“Look at you,” she whistles when he enters the living room and then strides over to him with a smile. “You look _so_ handsome, Cato. I love the way that color accentuates your eyes.”

Cato grins at her.

“But that damn hair of yours,” Astoria mutters in frustration as she pats at an errant patch of hair. “That cowlick is as stubborn as you. Oh well.” She steps back and smiles again. “Ready?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Astoria tells him truthfully and says mockingly, “But we must do our duty!”

And with that she loops her arm through his and leads him outside to the waiting limousine. The ride to the Mayor’s Mansion is spent in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, though, and that’s what he loves most about Astoria. She’s one of the few people he can just _be_ with and not feel like he has to put on a show for.

When they arrive at the mansion a few minutes later, Cato carefully helps Astoria out of the vehicle. She thanks him with a peck on the cheek and then slips her hand in his as they slowly make their way to the entrance, stopping here and there to have their pictures taken by the multitude of Capitol paparazzi - which he hates, hates pretending to be happy and playing like he’s got the perfect life. It’s tedious and frustrating and right now Cato’s trying like hell to smile instead of snarl. Honestly, he’d much rather be camped out in the woods plotting his next assassination than grinning and baring it for these people.

They finally make it into the house and are automatically accosted by Cato’s father, who seems overly grateful that his ‘intellectually stimulating’ conversation with Jamison Jewel, District Two’s notorious Escort, has been interrupted. The older man flings his arms around Cato and hisses dramatically, “ _Thank you_! He was talking to me about _shoes_. Again!”

Cato laughs and Magnus turns his attentions to Astoria.

“Stori!” Magnus waggles his eyebrows at the designer. “You’re looking as scrumptious as ever. Care to dance?”

Astoria shrugs and glances at Cato. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’m a big boy,” Cato tells her and passes her hand to his father. “Stop mothering me and go have some fun.”

“Fine.” She turns to Magnus and grins. “Let’s show these old fuddie-duddies how it’s done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Magnus salutes and begins leading her towards the packed dance floor. “Oh!” He calls over his shoulder. “Clove is out back, by the gardens. Take her a glass of champagne?”

Which actually means he wants her debriefed. Now.

Cato rolls his eyes at his father’s indirect order and wanders out to the balcony terrace. After a brief scan, he notices Clove taking a stroll through the gardens. He smiles unconsciously as he watches her marvel at his father’s newest addition to his topiary, a rather majestic stag, and quickly makes his way down the limestone staircase to her, careful to sidestep any conversations with journalists or Gamemakers.

“Like what you see?”

Clove jumps, surprised, and Cato smirks. He never would have thought he would be able to sneak up on his friend, but years of relative security have dulled Clove’s senses just enough. That, and he’s become quite a master of stealth after how long he’s been covertly killing people.

“Cato!” Clove barks, punching him in the shoulder.

Cato grins and rubs at the spot her fist connected with his arm. He may have gotten the sneak on her, but she can still pack a punch.

“Is this one of yours?” Clove asks, nodding and turning to the stag she’d been admiring.

“Mmhm.”

“It’s beautiful,” Clove tells him earnestly.

Cato wrinkles his nose and cocks his head at the topiary, scrutinizing his work. He’d finished this piece just before his last mission and it was already in need of a trimming. After a moment of study, he decides to swing by the next afternoon to make a few adjustments to the stag and to a few of the other creatures he’s created over the years. He’s sure his father wouldn't mind the intrusion or the pruning.

“Thanks.”

“No, really,” Clove turns to him. “You've turned out to be quite the gardener.”

“Stop calling me that. I'm not a damn-” Cato rolls his eyes and turns to find her smiling gently up at him. He stumbles over his words, breath catching in his throat, as the moonlight catches Clove in its glow.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks longingly. And, oh god, she is. The few Capitol enhancements she's had (eyelash implants and hair polishes) only serve to highlight her natural beauty (the smattering of light freckles he loves still shows on her nose) and the way her dark tresses have been pulled back into a messy French twist displays her aristocratic cheekbones and slender neck. Her dress – oh fuck, _that dress_ – which plunges suggestively in the front _and_ the back, glitters magnificently in the moonlight. She's dazzling and he can't help but openly stare at her.

“What?” Clove asks, self-conscious under his gaze. She may have ensnared one of Panem’s most sought after bachelors and has somehow become one of the Capitol’s darlings, but it’s Cato who has the ability to reduce her to a silly schoolgirl in seconds.

Funny enough, he's the only one who doesn't realize it.

Clove subconsciously lifts her fingers to her lips. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.” Cato chuckles and gently pulls her hand away from her mouth. Licking his lip, he uses his other hand to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “No, there's nothing on your face.”

Clove begins nibbling her lower lip.

“You look amazing tonight,” Cato continues, leaning down slightly as Clove’s gaze meets his.

It’s moments like these, when the desire and the hunger and the ache for her is almost too much to bear, that he wishes they were anyone else in the world. Maybe then he would be free to tell her the way he feels, to confess everything by pressing his lips against hers. He can imagine her melting into the kiss and sighing contentedly when his arms wrap around her waist.

But they’re not someone else - they’re Cato and Clove, who play vital parts in the war against a tyrannical regime and what happens next is oh-so-typical at this point.

“Clove,” Cato starts, leaning further towards her, “I-“

“There you are!”

The reaction is instantaneous; Clove jumps away, dropping Cato’s hand as if it’s on fire, and Cato chokes back a frustrated snarl.

“Vaughn!” Clove yips excitedly, rushing to him. “Baby!”

Vaughn pulls Clove tightly against him and drops a warm kiss onto the top of her head. Clove looks up, her cheek still pressed against the tall man’s chest, and grins. “I thought you had meetings.”

“Rescheduled,” Vaughn tells her. “And I've got some business in Two.”

“Business?” Clove frowns. “What kind of business?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Vaughn says slyly. Clove opens her mouth to question him further, but before she can speak he changes the subject. “What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?”

“Oh.” Clove pulls out of Vaughn’s embrace. “I’ll go grab some champagne.”

“Make it a scotch,” Vaughn suggests curtly. “Two fingers, one cube. Thanks.”

Clove nods and, surprisingly, hurries off to fetch their drinks without another word. The two men watch her go until Vaughn finally turns his attention to Cato. The dark-haired man’s jaw is set, the warmth and adoration in his gaze gone completely, as he settles his steely sights on the younger man. Cato tenses, but stares right back at Vaughn.

“What the hell was that?” Vaughn finally says after a moment of strained silence.

Cato shrugs, feigning innocence, before casually saying, “I have no idea what you're talking about, Vaughn.”

Vaughn raises one eyebrow, annoyed. “Do you think I'm stupid?”

Manipulative? Vicious? Yes. Corrupt? Definitely. But stupid? No. No, Vaughn is one of the most intelligent people Cato has ever met. He’s charismatic and charming and has somehow positioned himself as a champion of the people by “opposing” his grandfather’s more severe policies. It's all an act, of course. The current President proposes outrageous laws he doesn't even agree with and the future President pretends to block them in order to garner the support of the people, which will eventually help create a seamless transition of power. It's a rather brilliant plan, but Cato sees right through it.

“You may be Grandfather’s favorite little assassin, but that doesn't make you indispensable.” Vaughn’s eyes narrow menacingly. “Stay away from her.”

To his credit, Cato doesn't flinch. He stares right back at Vaughn, a defiant gleam in his eye, until the other man finally breaks his gaze and leaves without a word.

Once Vaughn is out of sight, Cato lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and slumps forward. To an outsider it may look like he just won a battle of wills, but Cato knows no one _ever_ beats Vaughn in a battle of anything. Retribution always comes swiftly and completely; he’ll need to keep his eyes and ears open in the coming months.

And he should probably go warn his father.

Frowning, Cato takes one last look at the topiary before heading back to the party. What little enthusiasm he'd possessed at the beginning of the night has all but abandoned him and he feels completely drained after the encounter with Vaughn, but Cato knows his night is a long way from over so he pushes through the throng of people milling around on the balcony and steps back into the large house. He’s only inches away from the bar when a strong, solid hand clamps down on his shoulder. Cato whirls around aggressively, survival instincts kicking in, and barely manages to stop himself from knocking Haymitch Abernathy into next week.

“The fuck, Abernathy?”

“Language, Conroy,” the older Victor chuckles, smirking cheekily as he slips past Cato to the bar. He grabs a glass of something clear and bubbly, ignoring the protests of the man who had just ordered it, and thrusts it unceremoniously into Cato's hand. Cato frowns, but takes the glass anyway as Haymitch slides back around him muttering, “You look like you could use a drink.”

Cato chuckles, amused but not at all surprised by Haymitch’s odd behavior. He turns toward the man at the bar, who is still watching in bewilderment as Haymitch melts into the crowd, and offers an apologetic grin as he hands him back the glass. He keeps, however, the small square napkin Haymitch had simultaneously passed along and tucks it safely inside the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. 

Hours later, when the lights have dimmed and the guests have gone and the mansion is quiet again, Cato pulls the napkin out of his pocket. He glances at it briefly before tearing it up and stuffing the shreds into his mouth. He swallows heavily as he strips down to his briefs and then crawls into his childhood bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

> **Cash deposit confirmed. Funds available. Withdrawal 7/5.**

Which means District 13 is ready to fight and the attack begins during the 75th Hunger Games…

Cato frowns. The plan is moving quicker than expected so Everdeen must be royally fucking up this Victory Tour if the rebel leaders are willing to move up their timetable by more than two years. But then, it's necessary for them to act before the other side does so it's understandable. The girl has been fanning the flames (unintentionally, but that doesn't really matter) and Snow can no longer ignore the way his country is blatantly turning against him. He's losing control quickly and he needs to find a way to exert his dominance before his empire erupts in fire.

 _How?_ Cato thinks, brow furrowing.

But the answer is obvious – Snow’s only hope of squashing this rebellion is by isolating and eliminating its rallying point, it's newly acquired symbol. He needs to kill Everdeen and he needs to do it conspicuously, yet licitly. The people need to know what he does to those who oppose him, but there can be no evidence tracing the murder back to him.

Which leaves the president with very limited options.

Clove’s confession about Vaughn from the night before suddenly rings in his ears: _“He's been in a lot of meetings lately.”_ She'd said. _“He was distraught.”_

Snow can’t use someone like Cato to do his bidding, not this time. It would be much too obvious and it would only fuel the fire. No, however Snow chooses to kill the girl will need to be bigger than she is, bigger even than outright rebellion if he wants to send the necessary shockwaves through the country. He’ll use his own symbol to fight the Rebellion’s.

As usual, it all comes back to The Hunger Games.


	3. Part One, C

The showdown with Mace is intense, but not at all like Cato had expected. There are no explosive accusations or flying fists, no physical attempts to avenge his partner’s murder. In fact, Mace seems resigned, not at all shocked by Whitt’s untimely death and only waits patiently at the front door the morning after the Victory Party for Magnus to fetch Cato from the kitchen.

“Mace,” Cato says slowly as he pads barefoot into the foyer, his pruning shears swinging at his side. He knows he can take Mace in a fight (has before), but he also knows grief and anger can be one helluva motivator and he's not taking any chances. “What are you doing here?”

“I just want to talk,” Mace says, his voice husky and thick. He glances at the shears. “That's all. Just talk.”

He sounds sincere and, after a moment’s hesitation, Cato nods and gestures for Mace to follow him. They wind their way through the house and down a flight of stairs that leads to the edge of the gardens where four wooden chairs are set around a small fire-pit. The space is private and they can speak freely here, yet it's close enough to the grand balcony for Cato to easily alert his father (whom he noticed slipping outside as he passed the ballroom) if Mace decides to become belligerent.

“Mace-“

“Was it quick?”

Cato grimaces, remembering the battle he and Whitt had engaged in. The truth is that no, it had not been quick – they fought for what felt like hours and inflicted wound after wound upon each other – but he doesn't think he can dig deep enough to tell Mace that.

“We were very evenly matched,” Cato says softly. “He held his own.”

Mace squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head.

“Mace, I’m sor-“

“Just,” Mace’s eyes stay shut as he holds up his right hand, “stop.”

Cato’s mouth snaps shut.

After a very long pause, in which Cato constantly shifts uncomfortably, Mace finally raises his head to look at his lover’s killer. He’s heartbroken, stripped down to nothing and Cato's breath catches at the suffering and absolute grief reflected in the shorter man’s eyes.

“Do you know _why_?”

Cato shakes his head and quietly says, “You know that's not how it works.”

“I just thought...” Mace trails off, frowning as he searches for the right words. “He didn't tell you _anything_?”

“He told me he wouldn't go down easy,” Cato smiles humorlessly at the memory of Whitt waggling his eyebrows challengingly, almost playfully, at him, “and then he stabbed me.”

Mace nods absently, murmuring, “Good. That's good.”

Cato shrugs. It certainly hadn't been good for _him_ when that hunting knife had unexpectedly sunk into his thigh or when his face had been slammed into a granite countertop or when he’d been pushed down a staircase, but he guesses the thought of Whitt fighting back is a comfort to Mace. It would be to him, if he were in Mace’s place.

“But nothing else? No hints about why they may have sent you?” Mace asks. “Nothing.”

“Mace, there really wasn't a lot of time for talking.”

“Did he…” Mace takes a deep breath. “Did he say anything about me?”

Cato runs a hand through his hair and sighs. He’s known this question was coming sooner or later, but has been hoping to avoid it at all costs. What is he supposed to say? That, yes, Whitt had held his gaze as Cato's fingers had coiled around his head. That his last request had been for Cato to tell Mace that he was sorry? That he'd been so wrong and that he wished he could make it right and that he would be waiting for him on the other side? That he loved him with all his being?

That Cato had only stared coldly back at him before ruthlessly ending Whitt's life with a jerk of his wrists?

“He said he loved you,” Cato concedes after a brief hesitation. “That he was sorry.”

Mace’s smile is thin, sad. “How did you do it? How did you kill him?”

Cato frowns. Neither his father nor Coors, the Capital Commander he reports to, have ever been that interested in _how_ Cato makes his kills, just that he _makes_ them. Even Clove won’t ask about his methods (she does listen, however, if he volunteers the information), though he knows she’s more than a little curious. All of them seem to understand how deeply personal it is to end someone else’s life and as long as the result is what they’re looking for, they won’t push. Mace knows what the protocol is – he just doesn't care this time.

“That's classified,” Cato says evenly, and his grip tightens unconsciously on the almost forgotten shears.

Mace notices Cato’s sudden tension and cocks his head. “Technically, _everything_ you’ve said is classified.”

Cato takes a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. “I think you should leave.”

“Just tell me,” Mace demands and takes a threatening step forward. He glances at the shears, but continues to needle the younger man anyway. “How did you kill him?”

“Leave.”

“No.” Mace says. “Not until you tell me how you did it.” When Cato’s response is silence, Mace growls, “Just _tell_ me.”

“I blew out his knee and then broke his fucking neck,” Cato finally snarls, composure successfully cracking. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Fuck, Mace. Just let it go.”

“Just let it go?” Mace hisses incredulously, and suddenly there's a fire in his eyes – something bright and burning that quells Cato’s own anger. “I can't just _let it go._ Whitt wasn't perfect and he did some _stupid_ shit, but he was mine.” Mace’s hands curl into tight fists, but stay at his sides. “And it's sick, I know it is, but I want to know everything – _everything_ – because maybe it'll make it hurt less. Maybe it'll make me feel like I had some say in it? Like I wasn't just completely blindsided?” Mace squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck man. I don't know. I just…”

But Mace trails off miserably and when he opens his eyes again the burning rage is gone. Something, however, has replaced the fire – something cold and something calculated – that leaves Cato completely uneasy.

“If it were my sister,” Mace says, “wouldn’t you want to know?”

Cato blinks, taken aback.

“I know you love her.” Mace says, a little too nonchalantly. “ _Everyone_ knows you love her.”

“I don’t-“

“Vaughn asked her to marry him this morning,” Mace interrupts, cocking his head to the side as he waits for a reaction. “He took her to Flat Chip Canyon and asked her as the sun was rising.”

 _Ah_ , Cato thinks as his heart suddenly slams against his chest, _there it is – the real reason for Mace’s visit._

“Isn't that where you two used to go for midnight runs? I know she's mentioned it before. Very romantic.” A cold smile spreads across Mace’s face. “Anyway. She said yes.”

Revenge, it seems, really does come in all shapes and sizes.

The garden shears fall out of Cato’s hand as he takes a step backwards, away from Mace and the satisfaction he’s so obviously reaping from relaying the ‘good news’. He needs to leave, needs to go somewhere else – _anywhere_ else – to process what he's just been told.

"How does it feel?” Mace continues, the venom in his voice now palpable. “Huh?”

“Stop.”

But Mace ignores him. “How does it feel to lose her? To know she’ll _never_ be yours? That you lost your chance to tell her how you feel? To be with her?”

Cato flinches, as if Mace has landed a physical blow, and glances left, then right, looking for an escape route. He’s never run from a fight before, but he’s never met an opponent with such affective weapons either and there's always a first for everything.

“What you feel right now,” Mace spits, his lip curling, “is _nothing_ compared to what the loss of Whitt feels to me.”

“I was just doing my job,” Cato responds defensively.

Which is true, but not quite completely. Because Cato _does_ find a certain level of enjoyment out of his chosen-for-him profession and, though he would never admit to it, considers the challenge of planning and carrying out executions physically and mentally stimulating. Even having to murder acquaintances and colleagues is somewhat satisfying as they tend to prove the most formidable. Dispatching Whitt had been the most difficult yet, and the triumph Cato felt when he’d finally felt the other man’s bones crush under his fingers had been exhilarating.

“You _like_ doing your _job_ ,” Mace hisses, eyes narrowing. “Don't try to deny it.”

Cato wasn’t planning to deny it, but he sure as hell won’t confirm it either. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says with more force than he feels, “It’s time for you to leave, Mace. I think you know the way out.”

Mace holds Cato’s glare for a moment, trying to determine whether _he_ wants the conversation to be over, before finally nodding curtly. He pushes past Cato and offers his last parting shot, “You’re _not_ invincible and you won't be _indispensable_ for much longer.”

Cato stands still, refusing to take the bait, and stares ahead resolutely until he hears the door slam shut behind him, then turns his gaze towards the balcony. His father is standing at the top of the steps, brow furrowed in concern. He cocks his head, eyes flicking to the door, and Cato lifts his right hand to wave him off. Magnus’ frown deepens but he correctly assumes his assistance isn't needed and so he heads inside to attend to other business, leaving Cato to his thoughts.

But his thoughts are depressing, painful even, and the usual calming affect the pruning process has on him is nowhere to be found, so Cato hangs up his gardening shears after an hour or so and trudges inside to clean up. He ambles silently through the hallways and is so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even realize his feet have taken him to the East Wing of the house until he’s standing in front of his father’s office, hand on the doorknob. There are two people talking inside, but Cato can’t quite place the voice of the second man and so he leans forward to try to catch what they’re saying.

“Your home is very beautiful.” There is a slight tinkling as whoever the speaker is rattles something on the desk. “Is this your wife?”

“She was,” Magnus sighs, his voice still catching after all these years. “She died when Cato was a small boy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A short pause. “Do you mind if I ask how she died?”

“The brakes in the car she was riding in failed. I was told by President Snow himself how lucky I had been that my son was not with her that morning,” Magnus says, and Cato can picture the meaningful stare his father is leveling at whoever he’s speaking with. “It happened just after I tried pushing through new legislation to better the working conditions in our quarries. The bill died when she did.”

There is silence after that. Not awkward, but a heavy, purposeful silence meant to let his message sink in. Magnus is feeling out the other man, trying to determine whether recruitment is a possibility.

It is.

“I’m sure the President’s condolences were heartfelt and genuine.” The tone of the mystery man’s voice implies his belief in the opposite. “He must have been a real comfort in your time of need and made sure you _understood your place_ in his heart.”

“He did,” Magnus’ reply is soft, almost regretful. There is another pause and then his father clears his throat dismissively that Cato takes as an unsolicited invitation into the room.

“Mellark?”

The shorter, stouter man ( _boy_ , really) turns around and smiles politely at him. “Hello, Cato.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Haymitch managed to pass out in one of our guest rooms,” the Mayor answers humorlessly, and Cato doesn’t believe for a second that the older Victor’s little sleepover was anything less than intentional – a way to bring this newest Rebellion recruit into the fold. Magnus nods at Peeta. “Show him the gardens while I rouse our uninvited houseguest. And, son? Make sure this one gets a _detailed_ tour.”

Cato’s eyebrows arch briefly, but he accepts his father’s command with nothing more than a curt nod. Peeta follows him out of the office and neither speaks as they wind their way through the house. Once outside, Cato bypasses the fire pit (Mace’s taunts are still too fresh to go there) and leads Peeta into the gardens instead.

“What happened to the buck?”

Cato stops walking and turns to find Peeta staring up at the now headless topiary. He hadn’t meant to take his frustrations out on the trees and bushes that morning, but the stag had only been the first casualty in a string of unfortunate garden mutilations. It would take some time before he would be able to recreate them.

“I got some unsettling news this morning,” Cato responds slowly. “I took it out on the topiaries.”

“You killed them,” Peeta says, his brow furrowing as he peeks around the buck to see the rest of the dismembered animals. “You killed all of them.”

Cato shrugs. “That’s kinda my specialty.”

Peeta turns to him, head cocked. “So I hear.”

“Oh?”

“Haymitch calls you the Grim Reaper.”

“Haymitch needs to keep his mouth shut,” Cato mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Is it true?” Peeta asks, staring intently at Cato. “Do you kill people for Snow?”

“All Victors have a talent,” Cato says after a moment’s hesitation. He’s not exactly sure what he’s authorized to tell Peeta, but his father did imply he should be thorough in his explanation. “And all Victors have a job.”

“Like what?”

“It varies based on your skill, your popularity.” Cato pauses. “Your capacity to be _influenced_.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow.

“Take Cecilia from Eight,” Cato supplies. “She won her Games through stealth. Stole food and gear from the Careers until they turned on each other, then waited for the rest to die. She never killed anyone, so she wasn’t very popular with fans, but Snow saw her for what she was – a damned good thief. She started stealing incriminating evidence from homes and offices of suspected Rebels to stay alive, but now she does it to ensure the safety of her children.” He hesitates. “And she can help the Rebellion at the same time by destroying documents or warning suspects.”

“Are all Victors double agents?” Peeta asks, surprising Cato with his lack of reaction – almost as if he already knew the direction this conversation would go.

Haymitch passing out at their house doesn’t seem quite so coincidental anymore.

“No.” Cato shakes his head. “Just a handful of us. Clove and Lyme are the only others from Two, none from One. Finnick and Johanna; Seeder and Chaff are both from Eleven. There are some that straddle the fence, not willing to hinder _or_ help, but we’re the actives.”

“I want to get involved,” Peeta says after a beat. “I want to help.”

Cato eyes him warily and murmurs, “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see?” Peeta’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “I thought you’d appreciate another Victor on your side.”

“I would,” Cato answers truthfully. “But it’s hard enough to navigate your new life as a Victor without throwing the Rebellion into the mix. My advice? Focus on keeping your Mentor and your District Partner in check before they get us all killed.”

Peeta’s frown deepens as he tilts his head, trying to determine Cato’s train of thought. “What do you know?”

“Enough to be afraid,” Cato says with a mirthless chuckle. “Times are changing, Mellark. Your Games set plans into motion on both sides of this war and you…” He points at the shorter blonde. “You need to keep yourself from getting caught in the middle. But if you really want to help, keep your head down and figure out a way to shut Everdeen up. That mouth of hers-“

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Cato’s eyebrows quirk, caught off-guard by the heat behind the demand. “She doesn’t love you. You know that right?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Of course, it is,” Cato scoffs, head tilting to the side in amusement. It feels good to hurt this boy, to watch the defiance in his eye waver as uncertainty wiggles its way into his thoughts. “It’s _everyone’s_ business. She’s a damned good strategist - No, she has no idea what she’s doing. She’s a damned good _survivalist_ , even if it’s mostly just dumb-luck.”

“She’s smart.”

“She’s reckless,” Cato counters immediately and now… Now he’s not sure who he’s talking about anymore. “And that recklessness will eventually catch up to her if _someone_ doesn’t wrangle her in. She may not love you, but she needs you. We all do.”


	4. Part Two, A

There aren’t many perks in the hire-to-kill profession – he’s hunted down and viciously murdered friend and foe alike, spent weeks at a time sleeping on the cold, hard ground, and, as his targets have become more and more capable themselves, has experienced levels of physical pain he never knew existed – but his duties keep him away from the Capitol most of the time, and for that Cato is eternally grateful.

His lip curls as he stares over the edge of the roof. He can see why others may find the Capitol appealing, the glitz and the lights are blinding, but the brightness is artificial, fake - it hurts his eyes. And the buildings; there are so many of them. It's constricting, not at all like the expansive mountains and wide-open ranges of District 2. He feels like he'd suffocate in this city if he were forced to live here.

Not that he’ll have to worry about living _anywhere_ in a few weeks.

He knew it was coming, but his chest still burns with bitterness at the thought of going back into the Arena. He’s paid his dues, he’s followed his orders, he’s done his job… _Too well_ , he thinks as his hands curl into fists. There is one reason Cato’s name was pulled out of that bowl and one reason alone: to tie up loose ends.

And they have ensured he will, by sending Clove into the Arena with him.

Which is something else he _should_ have expected. Cato knows Snow is ruthless when it comes to maintaining his powerful hold over Panem, knows he would do anything and eliminate anyone to keep his corrupt government intact. Clove’s participation in the Games is the President’s way of culling the unrest, of extinguishing the fire in two very different ways. She is his sacrifice, his way of garnering sympathy and proving his family is susceptible to the laws of their nation without endangering one of his own. She is also his salvation, his way of destroying the opposition without raising suspicion. Because Snow _knows_ what Cato is capable of and the lengths he will go to protect Clove, he _knows_ the depth of Cato’s dedication to his grandson’s fiancée, and he _knows_ that Cato will cut down every single person in that Arena (himself included) to keep her alive and relatively whole.

Clove.

Cato’s grip tightens on the railing and his eyes drift closed at the thought of her. They haven’t talked much in the past few months, not since she’d shown up on his doorstep the day after her engagement was made public. She’d come to clear the air, to explain the situation and to offer an olive branch – but the heartbreak was still too raw, too fresh and he’d responded to her peace offering with anger and accusations:

_“What is your problem!?” Clove’s frustration caused her to literally stomp her foot. “Why are you acting like this?”_

_Cato reeled around, a look of incredulousness on his face. How could she not know? How could she not understand? “Because I don't want you to marry him!”_

_“No shit,” Clove scoffed. “Look, you knew-“_

_“I never thought it would go this far,” Cato interrupted her heatedly. Yes, he knew what her mission was, had known what was expected of her the moment Vaughn had expressed interest and her father had identified that interest as an opportunity for infiltration. But that didn’t make any of it easier for him. “I never thought you would…”_

_“Would what?” Clove demanded when Cato trailed off. “Would_ what _, Cato?”_

_“I never thought you would get so attached to him!”_

_“_ Attached _?” Clove growled, eyebrows narrowing. “I am_ not _attached to him.”_

 _“Yes, you are.” Cato’s words were clipped, forceful and the sorrow behind them was buried deep under the resentment. “You care about him. You_ love _him.”_

_“I do not.”_

_“You do,” Cato hissed, his jaw clenched. “You_ want _to marry him.”_

_He wanted to shake her; to make her realize that somewhere along the way her mission became her reality, that she was engaged to the man she loved._

_And that man was not him._

If he could go back… Cato shakes his head. What a fruitless thought. He can’t go back - no one can - and he knows dwelling in the past will only make it more difficult to accomplish his mission moving forward. He has to get his head in the game _now_ or risk everything he’s worked so hard for all these years.

Which is why he’s here on the roof instead of tucked into his stupidly-luxurious, overly-soft Capitol bed like the rest of the city. He’d laughed at the note his father had slipped him just before he’d boarded the train - **roof, 11:40. don’t die. love you** – and had immediately torn and tucked the sentimental bit into his pocket for safekeeping. He assumed whoever this rendezvous is with had received a similar message.

Or, he checks his watch irritably, there has been some kind of miscommunication because it’s now well past midnight.

Another ten minutes tick by and Cato is quickly losing patience when the door suddenly swings open.

“Sorry!” It’s Finnick and he’s obviously been with a client.

 _Clients_ , Cato silently amends as Finnick approaches. The other Victor’s hair is mussed and he’s missing the top button on his shirt, his clothes are rumpled and there are two very different shades of lipstick smeared along his jawline. It makes Cato’s skin crawl to think about what his friend is forced to do and how numb to it the man has become.

If given the choice, he’d still rather kill people.

“It’s been one of those nights,” Finnick says with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “The requests haven’t stopped coming in since the Reaping. All of my regulars want one last lay.”

“Ah.” Cato frowns, never quite sure how to respond. “Well, okay. That… makes sense?”

Finnick grins. “Don’t worry, man. I won’t tell you that I just fucked Gamemaker’s wife. Or that their butler was sucking him off while he watched.”

“Finnick!”

“You’re such a prude,” Finnick laughs. He knows how uncomfortable Cato is with the work he does, and that’s why he takes every opportunity he can to taunt him about it. That’s what friends are for, right? “You’re not still a virgin, are you? Cause I can get you laid tonight if you don’t want to die a virgin. Or are you waiting for Clove? Is that it? Are you saving yourself?”

“I am _not_ a virgin,” Cato denies defensively, shying away when Finnick tries to flick his bicep. “And shut up.”

“Alright, I’ll stop.” Finnick shakes his head and, still chuckling, pulls a small leather pouch out of his pocket. “Here.”

Cato takes the pouch from him and empties the contents, a thick gold ring, into his palm. He stares at it a moment, trying to determine its significance before glancing up at Finnick uncertainly. “Are you… Are you proposing to me? Because I love you man, but… you know, uh, _not_ like that.”

“Ha ha,” Finnick drawls dryly and lifts his arm up to reveal a similar golden bracelet tucked around his wrist. “Put it on.”

“I assume this will be my token?” He slips the band onto his thumb. “Why?”

“Katniss is a liability,” Finnick explains with a sigh. “She can’t keep her mouth shut and she wears her heart on her sleeve. If she knew _anything_ about what we have planned, _everything_ would be compromised. We have to keep her in the dark until the very last moment.”

“We won’t have time to establish an alliance with her prior to the Arena,” Cato says slowly as he puts together the pieces of the puzzle. “I’m guessing these are to prove we’re trusted allies?”

“Haymitch has been wearing this bracelet and that ring for months.” Finnick gestures to the jewelry with a nod. “He’s made sure Katniss and Peeta will instantly recognize them when we get into the Arena.”

“Who else has one?”

“No one.”

“Clove? Johanna?”

“Cato,” Finnick takes a step forward and claps a hand on Cato’s shoulder, his eyes glinting hard with an authority he’s just managing to pull off. “Katniss has to live. We are her protectors and it’s our mission to ensure she leaves that arena alive. Not Clove’s. Not Johanna’s. Ours.”

“But –“

“I’m willing to accept them as allies,” Finnick ignores the attempted objection, fearing he won’t be able to continue once redirected. What he’s saying makes him feel sick, makes his heart absolutely ache with the injustice of being forced to prioritize one life above others. “But, Cato, they are _not_ our objective. I won’t hesitate to put a knife in Johanna’s back if she interferes with this mission and I need to know you’re willing to do the same.”

It’s a lie and they both know it.

But Cato agrees anyway.

They discuss strategy well into the morning hours. Finnick has uncovered small details about the Arena and what they may encounter – equal sections with fresh horrors in each, podiums setting on their own individual islands, weather with a twist – but most of their plans are simply based on conjecture. The sheer number of unknowns is staggering and there’s no way to predict whether a strategy will work or not; there are just too many what-ifs. In the end, Cato suggests they just wing it and Finnick laughs in agreement.

The first rays of morning sunshine are beginning to color the sky when they finally adjourn. Cato bids Finnick farewell on the fourth floor before continuing down to D2’s apartment. He’s yawning and dragging his feet a bit when he exits the elevator… to find Vaughn and Clove curled up on the sectional in the communal area.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, grimacing as he comes to a stop a few feet away from them. Vaughn is on his back, his head propped up by pillows while Clove is sprawled on top of him with her cheek resting against his chest. The sight is sickening, and Cato very deliberately and very loudly clears his throat to wake them.

Vaughn’s eyes pop open immediately, but Clove’s flutter as she yawns, “Cato?”

“Are you just getting in?” Vaughn asks shrewdly, cocking his head as Clove sleepily pushes off his torso. “Where have you been, Cato?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern, Vaughn,” Cato counters with a sneer. “What you _should_ be concerned about is that you’re in direct violation of Rule 37 - only representatives of the corresponding district or those supplied to serve them are authorized to gain entrance to district living quarters in the week proceeding the start of the Hunger Games.”

“Very impressive.” Vaughn quirks an eyebrow and slides his arm around Clove’s shoulders as she settles back against the couch. “Have you memorized all of the rules?”

“Yes.”

“And exceptions?” Vaughn shrugs and pulls Clove further into his side. “Because there is an exception for spouses.”

“That’s only intended for Mentors and Stylists,” Cato bites back through clenched teeth. “And as Clove is a Tribute and you’re not _actually_ married yet… You need to leave.”

He’s right, and all Vaughn can do is stare coldly at him until Clove intercedes softly, “Baby, please.”

“Yeah.” Vaughn breaks eye contact with Cato to give Clove a fond, affectionate smile. “It’s late.”

“Early,” Clove corrects quietly with a nod to the window. “The sun’s coming up.”

“You’re right.” Vaughn disentangles himself from his fiancée, stands slowly, and stretches while yawning, “As usual.”

“I really wish you didn’t have to go,” Clove breathes. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and blinks up at Vaughn with so much admiration it causes Cato to look away. “I just really want to spend more time with you before...”

“Oh, babe, hey. None of that,” Vaughn murmurs as he helps Clove to her feet. His hands immediately go to her cheeks, his thumbs clearing away the moisture from the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got clearance to meet you after the Parade tonight. We can hang out it one of the green rooms until curfew, okay?” 

Clove nods imperceptibly and tries to swallow her tears.

“Get some rest.” Vaughn takes a deep breath and lets his forehead fall forward to rest against hers. “I love you and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure we _do_ get more time with each other.”

Cato shuts his eyes. He doesn’t have much in common with Vaughn, but they _are_ united in their complete devotion to the fiery, petite woman they both love so much. They have entered into an unlikely and unspoken agreement that, if successful, will result in Clove’s survival.

“I love you, too.”

He doesn’t watch them say goodbye – doesn’t watch Vaughn press a soft, sweet kiss onto Clove’s lips or wrap his arms around her shaking shoulders, and he certainly doesn’t watch Clove drop her face into her hands once the door clicks shut.

“Can I…” Cato clears his throat awkwardly. “Can I do anything?”

“Cato.” Clove turns to him and takes a deep, ragged breath. “I think you were right.”


End file.
